


Censored

by metarachel, omgbubblesomg



Series: Invaders [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Electrocution, First Time, Hurt Everyone, Hurt Jensen Ackles, Hurt No Comfort, Jensen Whump, M/M, Master/Slave, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Painful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Slave Jensen Ackles, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 11:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18570850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metarachel/pseuds/metarachel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/pseuds/omgbubblesomg
Summary: The Invaders don’t understand privacy, or modesty, or embarrassment, or . . . orshame.All they give a damn about is rules, and their rules say very clearly that this . . . thisthingthat nowowns himcan bend him over anything, anywhere, and do whatever it wants to him.





	Censored

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second time we've paired up and we went straight from genfic to intense, debilitating non-con. So how's _that_ for a comeback, huh?
> 
> Seriously this is dark, even for us. Proceed with caution! It's also the first time either of us has written RPF and you can blame Rachel for that.

 

“Your friend is watching again,” Jared sniggers. Jensen shoves him in the chest because _Yes, obviously he is very aware that he is being watched._ The Invader’s eyes are like laser beams. Extremely corporeal laser beams. Jensen can feel them even when he goes around the back of the set, and he wonders—not for the first time—whether x-ray vision is part of the Invaders’ skillset. God, it would be just like them to have extra hidden talents that they hadn’t told humanity about.

He leaves the trailer and the eyes are on him again. He can’t get used to them. They’re too—for want of a better word— _alien._ But over the months since the Invasion happened, he’s learned to ignore being stared at.

Something is different about it today, though.

It takes him a while to figure out what it is. He’s busy. He’s got a job to do, after all. Being conquered by an alien species hasn’t really changed much on good ol planet earth. Oh sure, there was the clean energy and the medical cures and the universal housing and all that jazz, but otherwise, everyone pretty much went about their lives.  Except for those whose jobs had been displaced by the alien tech, and those who were being trained to keep all that new tech working. And, of course, the select minority who’d been chosen for the Elite Workforce.

_Elite Workforce. Ha! There’s a euphemism for slavery if ever I heard it._

So even though the production team now included an actual literal alien script-censor-slash-propaganda-master-slash-overseer, nothing much had changed on the set of _Supernatural,_ either.

So why was something different today?

He chances a glance over and, yep, the _thing_ is still staring at him. It has a name, but Jensen always just calls it Alien in his head. Never out loud, though—to its face it’s always Censor, as is “right and proper under the law as determined by my position.” The creepy-staring thing is in full force, but Jensen immediately notices the difference. Usually Alien stares at him, face impassive, but today it’s staring . . .

 . . . and _smiling._

A rush of goosebumps sweep down the back of his neck and arms. The Invaders are physically similar to humans (except for their freakish height and pronounced longevity), but something about seeing all those teeth is so profoundly _other_ it brings to mind big, dark holes with spiky things at the bottom.  

Thank God for Dean Winchester. There’s nothing like settling into the headspace of a single-minded, unafraid hunter for getting rid of unwanted thoughts. He roughhouses with Sam and quips a bit with Cas before Bob calls cut.

“Okay, wrap for scene twelve!” he yells. “Back here for the motel scene in thirty!”

The swarm of designers, artists, and crew descend on the set, preparing things for call. Jensen glances at his—well, Dean’s—watch. “Lunch?”

Jared claps him on the shoulder. “I brought a spare smoothie for you. You’ll love this one, I swear.”

“Ha, nice try! I know a protein shake when I see one.”

“You haven’t even—”

“I know a protein shake when I _hear about_ one.”

Jared rolls his eyes but grabs his own shake and joins Misha at their usual table in the craft tent. Jensen takes the seat next to him, and is about to crack into his own food when the seat across from him gets filled by . . .

“Hello, Jensen,” Alien says. From up close its teeth are even more terrifying. Are human teeth that . . . pointy? And do human mouths usually stretch that wide?

“Hi, Censor,” he says stiffly, and quickly shoves food into his mouth before he’s expected to say anything else. Usually Alien leaves them alone during working hours, and he doesn’t want to set some kind of precedent where it thinks it can join them whenever it wants.

“You are very symmetrical,” Alien says, its smile getting somehow wider.

Was that . . . Is that a compliment?

“My people find symmetry quite attractive,” it continues. “Neatness. Order. Mathematical laws. You understand.”

Jensen doesn’t. He avoids looking at Misha and Jared, and instead nods and smiles tightly. “Thank you, Censor,” he manages.

 _Be polite, be polite . . ._ They’ve all heard rumours of what the Invaders can do when they’re displeased. He swallows the lump of food in his mouth, and it tastes like fucking ash. Alien’s fingers look pale and distended on the tabletop. The food almost comes back up as he imagines what Invader skin must feel like. Sure it _looks_ human, but . . . He coughs to cover the silence.

“We’re grateful to be allowed to continue the show,” he says. There, that should be polite enough, right?

“As am I.” Do Invaders blink? Jensen doesn’t remember hearing anything about them blinking, and God does he wish this one would. Those eyes are _terrifying._ He glances away, to where Jared and Misha are acting politely disinterested next to him.

“So, how about the next scene?” he says, trying to make it obvious that this is a conversation Alien doesn’t have to be around for.

“The wallpaper looks great,” Misha immediately replies, and delves into a lengthy discussion on paisley. What a legend. Jensen feels himself relaxing already. Yeah, Mish, talk it out.

“I have something for you,” Alien interrupts. Misha stutters to a halt, and when Jensen turns around, those big awful eyes are still pointed directly at him.

“Oh . . . okay.”

Alien passes him a letter. He breathes a sigh of relief. Letters he can do. Paperwork he can do. He risks a glance at Jared and Misha again, but they don’t say anything. He eases the letter open with his fingertips, trying to touch as little of it as possible, as though it’s somehow imbued with Invader-ness just because it came from Alien’s hand.

The front is blank, and there’s a single sheet of paper inside. He unfolds it curiously. It’s very short, and looks formal. There’s a few lines at the bottom with signatures scrawled, so he immediately deduces that this is some sort of official document. Great, just what he needs.

_To: Censor ~illegible squiggle~,_

_I hereby declare Jensen Ross Ackles of sector 11-18-B to be redesignated as your sole possession as per the protocols outlined in_

The letter drops from his fingers.

He barely manages to turn around before he’s throwing up. It’s only a mouthful of food but it burns, it fucking burns. It makes his eyes water, and that burns too.

“Jen!” There’s a hand on his shoulder and he pushes it off.

Shit. Fuck. Holy—

He gags again, but nothing comes up except bile and a bubble of air. His eyes are still watering. Someone else calls his name. People are starting to notice. He staggers to his feet and doesn’t quite know how he gets to his trailer, but he makes it through the door and then his stomach is revolting again, seizing again and again as he—

_Redesignated as your sole possession._

His knees give out and he lands so hard he feels the jolt right up his thighs. He throws up directly on the tiles.

Danneel.

Oh, God. Oh Jesus. He has to tell his wife. He has to tell her to take the kids. He has to tell her to run. He has to . . .

His trailer door opens and he lifts a hand to shield himself.

“Jensen.”

It’s smiling at him. It’s _smiling._

He can hear his own breathing in the quiet and it sounds too wet.

“I . . .” he says, and only just manages to swallow the _can’t_ at the end.

“Are you unwell?”

He clutches weakly at the tiles but doesn’t have any way of responding.

“If you are sick, I will heal you.”

He flinches as the back of his neck heats. There’s a small scar there. The place where every human had received an injection immediately after the Invaders’ brutally decisive victory. Nanobots or something, straight into the spinal column. He shudders as the warmth spreads all the way out to his toes and then dissipates. Somehow his stomach quiets.

“What—” he manages.

“Now that you are mine, you will be well cared for.” Alien is still smiling. Its head is too far forward from its body, as though the internal structures aren’t quite the same as a human’s. It’s leering at him, leaning over him. It _owns_ him. It gazes at him unblinking. And it’s still. Fucking. Smiling.

“I have a family,” he whispers.

“I have already prepared their new home. They will live with us. They will go where you go. Your union is lawful, and my people are above all a law-abiding people.” It digs into the inner pocket of its jacket without taking its eyes off him, and holds out the letter again. “As you can see,” it says, “I have already secured the declaration from both the district and union leaders.” Somehow its head comes even closer, though its body doesn’t move. He feels the cool of the kitchen wall at his back and tries to sink through it. He’s cowering and he can’t bring himself to care.

“Jensen!”

Misha. That’s Misha. That’s . . .

“Hey, Jen, glad I found you! You’re needed on set, okay? So it’s time to get back to work. I’m just gonna, excuse me, I just—” He sidles past Alien without touching it, a fake-ass smile plastered on his face and Cas’s coat over his shoulders. “Great, looks like you’re already prepared for the scene, you look great, let’s just get you up, yeah, okay come on lunch break over, back to work, let’s get going, okay? Excuse me, Censor, thank you so much, okay Jen, off we go.”

Jensen blinks in the light and trips on his own feet, but Misha is gripping his elbow so hard he doesn’t even stumble. They’re somehow outside the trailer. Alien isn’t towering over him anymore, though the weight of its eyes is heavy on his back.

“Mish . . .” he mumbles.

“I know, J, I know,” Misha replies quietly. “It can’t take you while you’re at work, though. We signed contracts. We have to be here. We’re employed.”

“It, it, I’m . . .”

“It’s okay, we’ll figure it out. It’s not as bad as you think. It probably just wants you to mow some lawns or something. You’re gonna be okay.”

Oh, God. He hadn’t even considered what his role would be. What if it . . . What if it wants him to . . .

“Easy,” Misha cautions. He ducks behind an unused prop piano and drags Jensen with him, leaning him up against it. “You’re okay, you’re okay, we’re going to figure this out. Deep breaths for me.”

“How—God, how are you so calm?”

“I saw this happen to a caterer a few months ago, got snagged by the Sector Chief to cook full-time. You just have to remember to stay calm, and whatever it wants from you, don’t fight it.”

“I can’t . . . Misha, I can’t not fight it!”

The hands on Jensen’s shoulders squeeze hard. “They can hurt you, Jensen. They can hurt you so bad you pass out, and then they’ll take you that way. You have to stay calm and just follow their orders and we’ll figure it out after, okay?”

“I . . . Jesus, what about Danneel? The kids?”

“I checked the contract. It doesn’t even mention them. Censor can’t touch them, J. You know how they parrot on about the law. Danneel and the kids are safe as long as the I—” Misha’s eyes dart furtively around the sound stage, of which their little prop-stuffed corner is thankfully empty; their alien overlords don’t _appreciate_ being called Invaders. “—as long as the Invaders don’t find any reason to punish them.” He shoves Jensen’s arm. “Okay? Don’t give them any reason to think they need to be punished.”

Jensen sags against the piano, shaking his head. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

“Two minutes!” Bob’s voice roars out over the speakers. Misha grips Jensen’s elbow again and hauls him upright.

“Come on,” he begs. “Don’t give it any reason. Just get through the scene, just do your job, you can do it.”

Jensen staggers after him, and someone hands him an angel blade and someone from makeup tuts at his face and applies something around his eyes and someone else brushes off his shirt and Misha is there the whole time, leading him forward, dragging him toward the motel set until he’s there and Jared’s there and Bob’s there and they’re all looking at him and some of the crew are looking at each other like they’re realising that something’s happened and he can’t, he can’t. It’ll be all over the news by tomorrow morning. There haven’t been any high-profile Elite Workforce contracts in months, he had thought he was safe. Everyone’s gonna _know._

“Jensen,” Jared says, and he sounds like he’s been crying too.

“Dean,” Misha corrects, his voice going straight to Cas’s low tone. He looks at Jensen and begs him with his eyes.

Jensen lets Dean swell over him like a shield.

“Heya, Sammy, Cas,” he calls. He flips the angel blade over in his hand. “Where were we? Something about stopping another apocalypse?” He grins, and it isn’t quite right, even he can tell. But no one on the other side of the camera will be able to see it. This is his job. And he’s _good_ at it. Dean fits him like a glove.

From the corner of his eye he sees Alien head off to its seat in video village, but that’s okay, that’s fine. He’s not Jensen. He’s Dean Winchester. He rolls with the punches and he always finds a way out. The cameras start to record, and he does what he does best.

 

 

* * *

 

 

An hour passes, maybe two, and they’ve got plenty of time for the next scene. It’s not Jensen’s best work, or Jared’s for that matter, but Alien didn’t strike any of their choices or make them reshoot any lines, and he thinks that if anyone can make it work in post then it’s this team.

“Okay, let’s get this room wrecked!” Bob calls. “Remember, the blood goes on _last_. I’m looking at you, Casey. You’ve got thirty minutes to set off an archangel in here!”

Someone carries a pre-smashed chair in, and a crew member cracks a joke that Jensen doesn’t quite catch. He claps Jared on the back. “Good work,” he says. “You really sold the demon deal. Loved when you—”

“Jensen.”

His blood freezes in his veins, but Dean’s still right there under the surface so he plasters a smile on his face and turns around and almost manages to not flinch when he sees Alien standing right behind him. He has to take a step back to look all the way up at its face, but Alien just closes the distance again.

“Heya, Censor,” Jensen says. “They’re just getting the set ready and then we’re filming again so could you, uh . . .”

“We have twenty-nine more minutes. I will take you now.”

Everyone stills. Even the crew. He can hear the intake of breath from Jared behind him, but not a single person says anything in the quiet.

He keeps Dean’s smile right where it is even as his stomach and throat swap places: one going up to lodge tight against his adam’s apple, and one going down to settle like lead. “Ha,” he says, more of a word than a laugh, but it’s the best he can do. He swallows heavily without breaking the smile, trying to dislodge the weight in his throat. “Nah, man,” he bluffs, “I’ve gotta get—”

Pain fires out from the back of his neck, dropping him to his knees in half a second flat.

“That was a 3,” Alien’s voice says from across an ocean. “It goes to 10.”

He opens his eyes and finds his hands clutching the fake motel carpet, and two inches from his fingers are the enormous shoes of the enormous thing that’s now his owner.

 _You know what they say about big feet,_ he hears in his head, and he almost throws up again.

His eyes go up, up, up. Alien towers over him. Taller than anyone he’s ever met. Taller even than Jared. It’s smiling.

“Twenty-eight minutes,” it says. From nine feet above him, its head tilts. “Take your clothes off.”

He makes it back upright without knowing how he got there. Dean’s long gone, but he tries to will him back. “Listen,” he says, infinitely aware of the people surrounding them. “I can’t, I have to—”

This time the pain explodes like there’s a grenade wedged into the base of his skull. He distantly feels his knees jar as he hits the ground again. He can hear someone screaming and it sounds . . . awful. It sounds like dying. It goes on, and on, and on, and the pain is so blinding he thinks he’ll drown in it, drown in the scream.

 _Won’t someone help that poor person,_ he thinks, and then the pain is gone and it’s his own voice ringing back at him from the rafters, though not in an octave he’s ever achieved through all his years of acting.

“Oh God,” someone is whimpering from behind him.

“That was a five,” Alien says serenely. “Twenty-seven minutes.”

“Clear out,” comes Bob’s voice. “Everyone clear out.” Jensen would be thanking him if he could lift his forehead off the carpet.

Alien clicks its fingers, and from all around them come aborted shouts and startled sounds. There’s a crash from behind him. Jensen thinks he’s supposed to be grateful that it’s not him getting zapped this time. Alien raises its voice. “Everyone will not clear out,” it says. “You have jobs to do. _Do them._ _”_

In the stunned silence that follows, Jensen can almost feel the horror leaking out of every single person in the vicinity. These are his co-workers. His _friends._ He gets to his feet and avoids every eye in the room.

“Okay,” he says. He tries to make it quiet, but his voice breaks and he knows everyone can hear. “Okay, I won’t . . . I’ll, I’ll do it. But please, can we . . . it doesn’t have to be here?” He flinches automatically, ready for the pain, but Alien just looks at him.

“We have only twenty-six minutes remaining,” it says. “There is a perfectly serviceable bed right here.” It waves at the fake motel set with its two missing walls and missing ceiling and dozen too-close crewmembers going through the motions of work while getting absolutely nothing done. “Is this room not designed for such activities?”

 _This isn’t a room; this is a film set_ , he wants to say. He doesn’t. It won’t end well. He’s heard the rumors, and though it’s never specifically in the news it doesn’t take a genius to read between the lines. The Invaders don’t understand privacy, or modesty, or embarrassment, or . . . or _shame_ _._ All they give a damn about is rules, and their rules say very clearly that this . . . this _thing_ that now _owns him_ can bend him over anything, anywhere, and do whatever it wants to him.

“The, I . . .” He starts two sentences at once and doesn’t know how to finish either of them. “The set rules say not to use props for—” he chokes “—things.”

Alien stares at him for a full three seconds and then, quietly, it says, “No it doesn’t.” And before Jensen can think of another protest he’s back on his knees, screaming, and his spine feels like it’s trying to liquify itself to get suctioned out of the back of his neck.

The pain stops, and Jensen drops his forehead to the carpet, breathing hard. Above him, Alien says, “That was a six. Twenty-five minutes. Undress,” and his hands move to the buttons of his shirt automatically, like they’ve gone offline and are taking orders directly from their new owner.

His fingers tremble on each button, but they pop free anyway, and he’s curled face-down on the ground with Dean’s shirt open around him as his hands continue their trajectory and land on his belt buckle, where even they can’t find the will to keep going.

The pause lasts no more than five seconds before pain explodes like a nuclear fucking bomb, vaporizing his spine from his tailbone to the back of his head. It’s quick this time, thank Christ, ending almost before it’s begun, but it’s still _years_ too long and he can’t quite stop shouting even when it shuts off. His throat hurts, and every muscle in his body is locked and spasming with aftershocks almost as painful as a lower-level zap, and he’d be losing his lunch right now if he hadn’t already. He can’t seem to pry his hands off his neck. He’s prostrate at Alien’s giant feet, forehead scraping against the carpet, and somehow he thinks that’s no accident.

“That was a seven,” it says into the leaden silence. Jensen can barely hear it over the ragged rasp of his breathing. “A single-second burst. I do not wish to render you unconscious, but I will if I have to. It will not be pleasant for either of us, so I suggest you stop wasting time.”

Honestly, being _rendered unconscious_ sounds pretty damn tempting right now. That . . . monstrous fucking _thing_ could do whatever it’s going to do to him, and he wouldn’t be around to feel it, or to see everyone watching it happen. No nasty memories to keep him up at night. No nothing.

But he can’t. He’s neither weak nor a coward, and not typically scared of pain, but everyone has limits, and he’s found his. He’s too afraid to go through that again.

This time his hands are under his own control as they shuck Dean’s jacket off his shoulders. Then Dean’s flannel. Then, before Jensen can second guess himself, Dean’s tee. Bared to the cool air and Alien’s hungry stare, his skin breaks instantly into goosebumps. The silence on set is almost unbearable, too tense and too anticipatory and _everyone’s watching go back to work please I’m begging you go back to work_.

He feels a warning buzz in the back of his neck and realizes he’s been sitting still too long. Two whole seconds, maybe three, but the Invaders are assholes about time. Efficiency. Expediency. He looks down and realizes he’s already unbuckling his belt, his hands so disconnected from the rest of him now that he can’t even feel their work. He thinks he should be disturbed by that—did that last zap damage some nerves, maybe?—but he’s got way too many other things to be freaked about right now. The rising panic he feels as he watches his fingers undo the button and zipper on his jeans has nothing to do with his numb extremities.

“Twenty-three minutes,” Alien says, and Jensen cringes so hard he lands on his ass, but there’s no pain this time. While he’s down on the floor he pulls his shoes and socks off. From the corner of his eye he sees a crewmember study a polaroid for far too long before pulling the drawers from the dresser _just so_. He’s down to his jeans and underwear now, but he can’t get them off (with everyone watching) without standing up, and he’s not sure he can anymore. He wasn’t even this sore and tired after running the Seattle marathon.

Still, it’s either try or ask Alien for help, and that is _not_ happening.

He makes it onto his hands and knees. Gets one foot under him. Even gets halfway to standing before his leg gives out and he’s back on the floor at Alien’s feet again.

Its expression hasn’t changed one bit the entire time, but somehow, Jensen’s certain it looks _smug_.

“Censor, if I may . . .”

Misha. Voice softer and more careful than Jensen’s ever heard it. He’d tried so hard to forget Misha was on set that it actually startles him, jars him _hard_ back to a reality where he’s half naked in front of his best friends, dozens of coworkers he thinks of as family, and a living, breathing, _gigantic_ alien who _owns him now_ and is about to . . . about to . . .

_Oh god oh no this can’t be happening it’s just a nightmare it’s not real it can’t be real it can’t . . ._

Alien nods, and the next thing Jensen knows he’s on his feet again, Misha’s steady hands on his elbows and Jensen’s own hands clutching to Misha’s arms so hard he must be leaving bruises. Misha doesn’t complain or try to shrug him off. Just says, quiet enough for only the two of them, “Let me help you, Jensen.”

Jensen nods numbly, and can’t make his fingers let go of Misha’s shirt even when Misha lets go of him. Then Misha’s hands are on Jensen’s hips and he tries to meet Jensen’s eyes. Seeking permission, no doubt, but he can’t give Misha that. He _can’t_. The best he can do is duck his head. Look away. Not fight when Misha whispers “I’m sorry” and then “Close your eyes,” and then tugs Jensen’s jeans and underwear down in one steady motion.

The collective, horrified gasp he hears from the cast and crew is surely just in his head. People are crying—that’s not just in his head. He feels like crying too, but he isn’t somehow. Jared’s breath hitches from a few feet behind him, and he’d give anything for the poor guy to not have to be here, to not have to see this.

But he’s a slave now—for _real_ , not just technically like all the other conquered humans—and he no longer has anything to give because it’s all just being taken from him instead.

He doesn’t remember stepping out of his jeans. He doesn’t remember uncurling his fists from around Misha’s shirt. But he must have, because he’s alone again, and he’s completely naked. And at some point in all this mess, Alien’s gotten naked too, and he knows this because he’s suddenly six inches away from it and eye-level with its belly button, _don’t look down don’t look down don’t look down_ but of course he does, he has no more control over his eyes than he did over his hands, and that’s when he realizes that maybe the collective, horrified gasp he thought he’d heard wasn’t in response to _his_ nudity. Because this . . . this _thing_ in front of him is half again as tall as he is, and twice as wide, and its dick is very much in proportion to the rest of it.

For a second, Jensen thinks he’s gonna faint. There’s just . . . there’s _no way_ that thing is going _anywhere_ inside him without killing him. It’s nearly the length of his forearm, as thick as a beer can. The head’s too narrow for the rest of it—small mercy—and the big vein is in the wrong place and there’s a weird little bulge at the base and . . . and it takes him a too-long second to realize the thing has no balls, like, _none at all_ , just a smooth patch of skin where they should be and do the Invaders fucking _castrate_ their people or are they just born this way and why does he even fucking _care_ because it’s not the missing balls he should be concerned about it’s the _giant fucking alien cock_ curving high and to the left and suddenly Jensen can’t tear his eyes off it, even as he stumbles _away away away._

“Please, Censor . . . Please, please don’t do this to him,” Jared half-whispers, voice thick with tears.

But Jared barely gets the last word out before he’s gasping back a shout. Jensen hopes it was just a one or a two—a warning. Thinks maybe it was; he still can’t pull his eyes away to look, but he’s pretty sure Jared’s on his feet. Imagines Misha grasping his arm, half to support him and half to stop him from doing something very, very stupid.

Jared says nothing more. Jensen doesn’t blame him. Jensen’s _glad_. It’s been ten whole minutes (which, okay, feels like _days_ ) and he’s already past sick of people getting hurt because of him.

He swallows. Squeezes his eyes shut. Manages to ask, voice cracking, “What now?” His heart’s thrashing so hard against his ribs he’s sure he’d be able to see it if he looked.

Alien waves expansively at the bed, but says nothing.

Still, Jensen’s a good ol’ Texas boy with a good ol’ Texas father— _oh God oh no don’t think of your parents now they’re going to_ know _they’re going to find out don’t think about it don’t think about it_ —he knows an order when he sees one.

It can’t be more than five feet from where he’s standing to the bed, but it feels like crossing an ocean. He almost wishes his body were moving on its own again; surely it’d be better than this leaden heaviness, this slow creeping horror gluing his feet to the floor. What if he can’t do it?

He can’t let it hurt him like that again. He can’t let it hurt the others like that either. _Move_.

He looks down at his shuffling feet and remembers he’s _naked at work_ and almost freezes all over again. But the Invaders can control those nanobots with their damn _minds_ and he _can’t_ . . . he’s not gonna give it another reason, not when the end result will be the same either way.

His body, thank God, takes back over. Suddenly he’s on the bed, on his hands and knees like he knows it wants him to be. At least he’s facing the headboard—some hideous lime-green and orange paisley, God, where does the production team even _find_ this stuff—rather than his best friends and half the crew.

He feels Alien lurking behind him, spots the massive shadow it casts across the wall, and curls his fingers into the hideous yellow and beige paisley comforter—a different paisley than the headboard, could this set possibly clash any harder? Tries to think what Dean would do in a similar situation. Draws a blank because Dean would’ve never dropped trou. Would’ve been willing to die fighting instead because he’s a fucking reckless idiot with no wife or children who need him to walk out of here alive (well, okay, there _is_ Jack, and like kinda Cas, but . . .), and because he knows he’d either be saved at the last second by Sam or brought back from Heaven somehow but Jensen doesn’t have that luxury, every army in the world has been vaporized and everyone works for the Invaders now if they want to keep living and his friends can’t swoop in and rescue him from a foe that can drop them dead with a casual thought and—

Jensen nearly jumps out of his skin as hands grasp his hips, so big the fingers almost meet below his navel, way too hot to even begin to imagine they’re human. But they aren’t rubbery or sticky or slimy or any other weird, alien thing, and that makes it even worse somehow.

“We will have to be expedient,” Alien says, and the fact that its voice comes from behind him jolts every fight or flight response he has, but that’s not . . . he drags in a ragged breath and forces himself not to move and Alien says, “Good,” and he’s being good, he’s being good he’s—

Something touches him . . . _there,_ and he lurches so hard Alien’s fingertips clutch immediate bruises into his hips and _he’s not being good he’s not he’s not he can’t he_

The only reason he knows he’s wailing is because Misha has to raise his voice to talk over him.

“Censor,” Misha says, so so subservient. Like Jensen could never be. He shuts himself up by sheer force of will, even though the pain doesn’t stop, and Misha says again, quieter. “Censor, if I may.”

_Misha will know what to do. Misha will get me out of this._

The zap shuts off. Jensen gasps out his relief and turns his head to look over—dear God—to look over his own bared shoulder, and beyond that his bared _ass._ When he looks at Misha he’s praying for a . . . a weapon, or, or _something._ But he chokes on his own sob because Misha’s holding out a couple of little foil packets and Jensen knows what they are and the set medic is behind Misha’s shoulder, must have just handed them to him, and they all know, they know it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen, _it’s going to happen._

Alien makes a contemplative sound, and when Misha doesn’t get struck down by the invisible _zap_ he approaches, holding the foil packets out. Alien takes them and rips one open and Jensen has just enough of his shit together to think _oh thank God at least I’m not going to get an Invader STD_ but then Alien’s left hand grips his hips again and its other slots between the cheeks of his ass and it wasn’t a condom, it was a lube sachet, because Alien’s fingers are cold and wet and _awful_ and Jensen can’t help the scream that bubbles out of his throat when Alien’s fingers find what they’re looking for and

“Don’t!” he shouts, and he scrabbles against the ugly motel sheets like maybe that will save him, but Alien’s fingers dig into the bruises it’s already made and its other fingers dig into, into, oh God into _him_ , into his ass, into his, fuck oh _fuck get me out get it out._

The zap that follows is blinding in precisely the wrong way, because even as he writhes against it, writhes against the bedsheets, he can hear the sound of way too many indrawn breaths and Misha saying, low and urgent, _Don’t, Jare, don’t, you can’t help,_ and someone else crying quietly and his own voice, his own scream, and the harsh human-not-human _grunt_ of Alien above him as it shoves another finger at him. Except he’s locked up so tight _make it stop make it stop_ that it can’t hope to fit anything else in there and it’s already so huge, just the one finger, and when the pain finally ends he doesn’t even realise because there’s still the other pain, the pain that’s _so much worse,_ as Alien just regrips his hips and tips him further forward and shoves and shoves and shoves and he’s strong but he’s not _that_ strong, it’s going to rip him in two, maybe it already has.

“ _Stop_ ,” Jared wails. “Stop hurting him!”

The only reply Jared gets is a zap, a big one by the sound of his scream, and when that gut-clenching noise finally ends, Alien says serenely, “Eighteen minutes. You are not complying.”

Jensen makes a sound he doesn’t even have a name for because it’s absurd, it can’t be happening. Of course he’s not complying. He has no control over any of his limbs. His knees have curled up towards his chest in a desperate bid to get away and his arms are spread out in front, his hands grabbing fistfuls of the bedspread, the headboard, the fucking _mattress,_ anything to get him away get him _away,_ and the only thing that’s keeping him in place is one enormous too-hot hand crushing his hip and two equally enormous fingers wedged so deep inside him he can practically taste them in the back of his throat.

“Don’t worry,” Alien says, and Jensen makes the sound again except Alien isn’t even talking to him, it’s talking to Bob Fucking Singer and it’s saying, “Don’t worry, I will make up for lost time,” and Jensen thinks _What_ and he realises What and then he thinks _How_ and Alien removes its fingers and he realises How and then he thinks _No, I’m not ready,_ but if he manages to voice anything it gets lost in the bedspread he’s crumpled up beneath his face. It’s wet and he thinks _Someone is crying_ but the someone is him, he’s crying, and Alien drags his hips backwards and then seems to think better of the position and gets right up on the bed with him. The frame creaks ominously because it’s a set-piece, it’s not made for this, it’s not made for . . .

Alien throws him sideways and then drags him around and he covers his face with his hands which means his hands are under him when Alien finally flips him back onto his belly, which means he doesn’t know which way he’s facing until he hears Jared strangle back another whimper and he looks up and they’re _right there,_ not ten feet away. Jared’s so white that his first instinct is to crack a joke about Vitamin D, and then the obvious second joke about Vitamin D occurs and he says, “Wait, wait, not . . . please not, they don’t have to be here, Censor, please.”

Alien grunts and knees his legs together so it can get closer and says, “Clearly, they do. I believe this is what you humans call a teachable moment. Typically used for non-compliant children, yes?” It trails a hand up the back of his spine, goosebumps following after it, and Jensen ducks his face into the covers because he can’t be _here,_ he can’t be here getting felt up by this . . . this _thing._ Not with everyone watching. And he can’t stop them watching, but he can stop himself seeing them so he makes it go away. They’re not there, they’re not there.

“Don’t look,” he says into the bedspread, no idea if anyone can hear him. “Close your eyes.”

The hand on his back spreads heat wherever it touches but leaves only cold behind. It reaches the back of his neck and for a moment it presses him into the mattress, makes him arch if he wants to keep breathing. And then its fingers curl around his neck and they’re so large he thinks they’re going to meet right against his trachea, but instead Alien just tightens its hold and hauls him upright as effortlessly as he picks up Arrow or Zep, holding him at arm’s length so he’s got no choice but to stay at an angle, all his weight going into his knees and backwards against Alien’s thighs, the same awful inhuman temperature as the rest of it.

_Don’t fight it. Think of the kids. Don’t fight it._

He can’t hear anything over the sudden white noise in his ears, but he can see Jim mouth _Jesus Christ_ and one of the tech guys is leaning heavily against a prop, a hand in front of his mouth, and Jared and Misha are way too close, holding each other’s arms and shirts like they can keep each other standing.

Fresh tears burn down his cheeks. Childishly, he covers his face with his hands.

“Sixteen and a half minutes,” comes the voice behind him. And Alien shuffles until its knees are wide on either side of his own, and its breath is clammy and too hot on the back of his neck and his panting is too loud where he’s hyperventilating into his own hands but the fingers around his neck squeeze and don’t let him pull away as the pressure comes back. Alien murmurs into his ear, “I will be gentle in future when you comply,” and then has to literally push him away in order to give itself room to slot that tree trunk of a dick against his ass, and it doesn’t matter if he wants to comply or not because there’s nothing going on upstairs except _No, no, not like this, please no._

The head goes in easily and he hiccoughs on a hysterical laugh because the only reason it fits in at all is because it isn’t human. It’s tapered at the tip, it’s designed for wedging into unwilling subjects, he thinks, or maybe that’s just Alien.

The sound Alien makes is like one hundred pornos echoing in an empty room. It _echoes._ It’s coming from a voice that was never meant to be heard by human ears. It’s a groan, there’s no doubt, but it’s wrong, it’s wrong, and it’s right in his ear. Alien’s hand shifts until its palm is against his adam’s apple and it can squeeze and pull at the same time, tugging him down as it pushes up.

His knees come together and his legs stretch as much as possible, trying to inch his body away from the awful pressure. But Alien just follows him and then, when he’s reached the very extremity of what his body can achieve, Alien just _keeps going._

His hands fall off his face before he can stop them, one going to latch onto Alien’s forearm and the other to reach backwards and shove at the solid wall of whatever passes for muscle in the Invaders.

Either Alien is too strong to recognise it as an attempt to escape, or else it’s too distracted to punish him because it ignores his scrabbling fingers and straightens up and Jensen’s knees leave the bedspread and gravity forces the tapered head in and the inch that follows isn’t tapered at all, it’s fucking, it’s just, it’s—

He screams and arches and drives the tops of his feet into the bed to get away and the inch slides out, and Alien tightens its hand and draws him inexorably back down, and then down even further, and he’s so, it’s too much he’s going to tear, he must be bleeding, he’s so glad the hand around his neck won’t let him look down because if he did he’s sure he would see the shape of it, of the Invader _cock_ in him, of the two inches about to be followed by the other eight or ten, already bulging him and splitting him from the inside out.

“I can’t,” Misha tells him on a sob, and he realises he’s begging for help, _Please,_ and _Make it stop,_ and _Misha, Jared, please,_ shouts interspersing each one.

“Jen,” Jared chokes, all broken, and he takes a step forward before Misha can stop him and Alien doesn’t even move, doesn’t even click its fingers, but Jared falls to his knees with a shout and Jensen has to close his eyes again, because he can’t see this. He can’t help Jared. He can’t even help himself.

Alien puts weight on the base of his neck and its immense forearm rests across his chest, keeping him from managing a full breath. His heartbeat is hummingbird-fast against the fingers on his throat, which squeeze as they draw him back even further.

He’s got no point of reference for what this is supposed to feel like. This is leagues away from Danneel’s cheeky smile and “Wanna?” whispered into his ear at night. He doesn’t know what he’s taken, what he’s supposed to take, what this thing will consider enough.

His ass burns and his stomach cramps and tries to shove the intrusion out by force but if anything it just forces more of Alien in, the friction between his cheeks so wrong he’s sure he’s going to throw up. He doesn’t, but only because he’s too busy screaming again as something gives with a white-hot burn every bit as agonizing as the punishment zaps. Alien slides in deeper, easier, and he knows he’s bleeding, can feel it slicking the way, running down Alien’s cock and the crack of his ass. He pictures it puddling on the bedspread like the dyed corn syrup Bethany flings around for monster kills, and wonders if he’ll end up messy-dead like every other victim in _Supernatural_ ’s cold opens. The thought makes him struggle all over again. He’s gotta get home to his family. He’s _got_ to.

“The nanobots will repair you,” Alien grunts into his ear.

Yay. Fucking great. Like he’s just some _tool_ to be fixed when it breaks. Like this nightmare could ever possibly be fixable anyway.

His stomach cramps again, so bad he’d be doubled over if not for the hand on his throat, and he growls and lets his head fall back and stares at the ceiling so he doesn’t have to see the horror on his friends’ faces or the even bigger horror beneath him. His eyes are watering so hard the whole world is fuzzy, out of focus, and he wishes the pain were too, the heat of Alien’s body against his, the too-intimate moaning from just inches away that sends shudders up and down his sides. The awful burning pressure inside him, so sharp and clear and _present_ that all the soft-focus lenses in the world couldn’t lessen the impact.

He tries. He really fucking tries. But he can’t check out. It hurts too bad. It’s too awful in every way. It feels like it’s been going on for years already and Alien isn’t even all the way inside him yet.

He prays. When that doesn’t work, he straight-up begs. Alien responds with one last mighty shove that sets Jensen’s ass flush against its thighs and nearly blacks him out. Maybe he does black out a bit, because next he knows the hand around his throat is braced against his chest instead, the heel of Alien’s hand pressing against his sternum like its dick has gone so far up that the tip is resting right there and Alien’s trying to reach it.

He’s past words, past pleading, but each ragged too-quick breath is audible on the inhale, like his lungs are trying to beg of their own accord.

There’s another rush of noise; a group reaction from everyone watching, and he wonders what now, what could possibly be enough to shock them after all this. He imagines Alien’s dick moving internally, like a limb, shoving against his stomach from the inside for all to see. Maybe his belly has finally split open. Maybe they’re all going to be forced to watch him bleed out on set. The crew won’t have to add fake blood, at least.

He coughs something that could be a laugh, and pain radiates out from the place where he’s split wide, rocking him like that’s his new centre of gravity. Alien suddenly takes its hand away and Jensen falls forward with nothing else to keep him up.

The fall is bad, but landing is even worse. His shoulders lock up around his ears in a flinch that lasts longer than it should, and then they get forced back into place as Alien gathers up both of his wrists in one enormous hand and uses its hold to yank him backwards, squeezing the last swollen inch of its dick back in where he hadn’t even realised it’d slipped out.

Alien seems to take a moment for itself and Jensen dares to hope that maybe, maybe this is it, maybe this is all it needs. But then its hot-awful breath comes out on a long exhale and it pushes Jensen away as it does, glacially sliding itself out like it’s got all the time in the world. His stomach cramps the entire way, locking up his lungs as his body pushes and pushes and _pushes,_ instinctively wanting this thing out as much as he does.

Long seconds later Alien sighs and readjusts its grip. _Don’t,_ Jensen thinks. _Don’t, please._ He tries to put weight in his shoulders, to lean forward against the hold around his wrists. He tries to stretch his body like some kind of comic book hero, but he’s not a hero, he’s just a man, just a _slave_ to be owned and used and fucked.

He tries to get further away but when Alien shoves back in there’s nowhere, not a goddamn inch in between them. The force of that enormous dick getting jammed back inside him is so strong that his ass audibly slaps against Alien’s thighs. His scream feels like it’s getting driven out of his body by the sheer size of the thing being forced inside him.

“Aah,” Alien sighs to itself, sounding for all the world like it’s _content._ “Yes. Acceptable.” Then it pulls back out, leans over his back, and shoves back in. It’s too tall for the angle to be easy, and the pull from above nearly lifts Jensen off the mattress. Something squelches between them, and Jensen _knows_ there’s not enough lube for that, which leaves only his blood. He’s never been in so much pain in his life, and he’s almost too panicked and horrified to even notice.

The bedframe makes an urgent shriek which Alien ignores in favour of pulling back out, shoving back in, clenching fingers around his wrists, his hips, drawing him back into the cradle of its hips and thrusting in sharp little motions while it’s already as deep as it can go, crushing him against the hold. Every breath is a scream at this point, when he’s got enough air. His diaphragm feels bruised, like it’s what’s been fucked. For all he knows about anatomy, it has been.

How is this not over yet? How is he even still _alive_?

The rush of noise from the crowd comes again, and this time he understands why. He feels the movement inside him. The sudden _swelling,_ the extra pressure in the exact place he can’t possibly take it. He lurches forward as Alien grunts in time with the swell.

 _What else,_ he thinks, _can there possibly be._

Alien doesn’t seem at liberty to answer the question. The grunting in his ear takes on a desperate quality, and Alien lets go of his wrists to claw at his hips, slamming into him in short brutal thrusts, barely pulling out before crashing back in. He falls face-first against the bedspread, finally able to hide his face though he knows it’s too late. Everyone has _seen._ The pressure inside him grows and then dissipates in waves, and Alien accompanies the crest of each expansion with a gnashing of its teeth, wet and unwelcome in his ear. It begins to shudder all over, the very muscles it’s made of twitching in anticipation. Jensen shakes his head against the mattress, but his weak denial is useless here. Alien scratches fingers down his back, his sides. It grabs his waist and digs into the bottom of his stomach, as though trying to clutch at itself through Jensen’s skin.

He has no idea how this is going to end, but he’s got no way of stopping it regardless, so when Alien bunches up around him and roars he thinks this is it, it’s happening, it’s coming inside me. Except then a hand presses into the back of his neck and Alien yanks itself out and its dick catches at the last second with a shock of pain so bright it steals the scream right from his throat. Where it should slip out easily thanks to the tapered end it instead gets stuck. The head has swollen or something, and he can feel it still flexing and shifting right there, right at the tip of freedom. Alien roars and heaves, shoving at his neck and the small of his back. Jensen struggles against it, desperate to help. He wants that thing out just as much as Alien does. But the wet heat of it is immense and every wrench of Alien’s hips feels like the worst kind of torture, made even worse because it feels like it’s a hair's breadth from getting out. His hips follow Alien’s no matter how much he tries to get away. He _pushes_ and thrashes and doesn’t know if he’s making it worse or better when Alien squashes his chest against the mattress and uses the heel of its hand to force him forwards while it shudders and shouts and _shoves_ and with a sound that he’s sure is audible even over his high-pitched keening it springs free.

From his periphery he’s aware that more than one person drops in a dead faint, but he’s got not a single ounce of energy left to care when the whatever-the fuck slaps down against his back and _explodes,_ something wet and red-hot gushing up his neck and down his sides, burning as it goes and itching in the scratches left by Alien’s fingers. Alien makes a gutteral sound that could very well be coming from the depths of its insides. It puts both hands on his shoulder blades and leans all its weight on him, rocking the bulbous still-leaking head of its dick between his ass cheeks, up his spine, and through the mess it’s already left. The thing must weigh four hundred pounds; the weight crushes all the oxygen out of his lungs, and in the rush of adrenaline all he can feel is that slide, the awful heat of the thing slicking his back, and the ragged-wet burning between his legs where he’s sure he’s about to bleed out.

Alien stays where it is, rocking and grunting and shaking for so long that Jensen would see spots if he had his eyes open. And then . . . it pushes up using Jensen’s back. And. It’s over.

 _Pass out,_ Jensen begs himself. _Pass out, pass out, pass out._

He doesn’t pass out. He gasps against the mattress, fingers clenching ineffectually at the covers as he tries and fails to do something. If not pass out, then at least get up, get away.

But he doesn’t.

Eventually, with a voice like a weather announcer looking up at a couple of clouds, Alien says, “Two minutes to spare.” Jensen manages to shift his head sideways slightly, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The room twists nauseatingly in front of him. The people scattered around the set are open-mouthed and ghostly.

The set medic takes two quick steps toward him, but he hasn’t asked permission and halfway through the third step he collapses to the floor, whining high and tight. “You are not needed,” Alien says, and when the zap ends the medic doesn’t try to approach again.

“Censor,” Misha says carefully, and Alien must have a soft spot for him because not only is Misha not immediately floored, he must’ve received some signal to come closer because he quickly approaches and drops to his knees next to Jensen’s head. It puts him just out of eyesight but Jensen’s run out of energy and doesn’t bother turning his head. There’s only one threat left in the room and it’s directly behind him.

“Come on,” Misha says gently, carefully.

 _No,_ Jensen thinks, and the only reason he doesn’t say it out loud is because he’s spent, he’s done. He’s got nothing left to give.

“Just a bit more,” Misha begs. “You’re almost finished.”

 _I_ am _finished._

But Misha’s always been an obstinate fool, especially where he’s concerned. His arm slips under Jensen’s and around his back, not trying to avoid the mess he knows is back there.

“Don’t,” he manages, but Misha tugs, pulling his head and shoulders off the bed. It sets something off in the rest of the crew and in a rush they’re moving. Jared is suddenly there, crying so hard he can’t even get under Jensen’s other arm but trying to anyway. Jensen’s head hangs as he gets pulled further off, further away. He doesn’t deliberately turn around to see Alien behind him, but he can’t help it when the pathetic sway of his body puts Alien right there in eyesight. It’s leaning back against the headrest, legs stretched in front of it lazily. Its dick is resting against its thigh, red from more than just swelling and wet from root to tip. The head of it now looks like a cone-shaped baseball and is still flexing gently. When he raises his eyes Alien is _smiling_ at him and it hits, truly hits, that this is his life now.

“Come on,” Misha says again, but Jensen almost misses it over a fresh new misery that’s just added itself to the giant heap of older ones: an intensely itchy pins-and-needles sensation, part tugging, part burning, starting between his legs and spreading as deep inside him as Alien’s cock had. Somehow he _knows_ it’s the nanobots, stitching him back together. He wonders if it’s a design flaw or a fucking _feature_ that they add to the pain instead of easing it.

“Let’s get you in the shower,” Misha says. How the fuck is he still so calm? He’s cried, Jensen can see the streaks through his makeup, but he’s holding it together now. For himself. For Jensen. For all of them.

Jensen nods, even though he knows damn well this isn’t a problem a shower can fix. But at least it’ll get the Invader splooge off him, the sweat, the blood, the _stench_ of what was done to him. He’ll don Dean Winchester’s makeup and Dean Winchester’s hair and Dean Winchester’s clothes, and with any luck, he’ll also figure out how to don Dean Winchester’s lead box, the one where he buries all his trauma and transforms it, somehow, into the strength to face the world again. Even knowing full well that the world will inevitably kick him in the nuts—again—while he’s down.

Jensen knows that’s his future now too. But if Dean’s taught him anything, it’s that he can’t give up. His loved ones won’t let him. He won’t let himself. _Team Free Fucking Will for real, eh?_ Because there’s _always_ a way out; they’ll just have to keep fighting until they find it.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
